For nearly thirty years before I became a published fiction author, I worked on my writing in the proverbial shadows, hardly ever showing anyone any of my work. I was trying to develop different techniques, working on my voice, working on character development, et cetera. I found books and articles with writing prompts and challenged myself by doing them, and then redoing them again and again until I felt like I’d learned something.
Most of those aren’t worthy of an audience, quite frankly, because mostly they were just fun homework exercises. Each prompt had me working on a specific skill or skills, not trying to produce quality prose. But a few of them turned out pretty good. Here’s one from over twenty years ago. If I remember correctly, the prompt was something like: “write third person omniscient, and shift repeatedly between perspectives, as tightly as you can, without losing narrative flow.”
Grocery Line
She fumbles through her purse as the man behind her paces, back and forth, between the impulse-buy candy and the tabloids. Maybe if he fumes aggressively enough, he can will the woman forward. His beard itches, and the beer from the refrigerated aisle will be warm by the time he gets home, or so he keeps repeating.
She shows her driver’s license, and a manager is consulted over whether her cheque can be accepted. “I shop here everyday,” she says, groceries consisting of two tins of cat food, a book of crosswords, and a TV dinner.
Her purse hides a dead universe, with old photos of the husband who passed on and the children who left the nest. Wadded-up tissues entrap the dust of ages. Her keychain has a pepper spray she could never actually use.
The man calls his buddy on a cellphone, reporting that the beer and chicken wings won’t arrive in time for the big game. He asserts it’s because old women can’t carry money like real people do. He repeats this several times to make sure the cute, barely-legal cashier will be impressed with his razor wit. He wonders if she’s a Michigan or Michigan State fan.
“I can take you over here, sir,” calls the cashier in the next lane. The man stomps over while openly thanking God. Moments later, the woman’s cheque is accepted. She smiles at the cashier, who reminds her of her granddaughter.
“There ought to be a law,” the man says, fumbling for his wallet. He opens it, and stares for a moment. He looks up and chuckles, eyes shifting. “Um … I think I have some money in the truck. Hold my place.”
He nearly knocks the old woman over as he double-times it toward the door. She has stopped to pick up a penny, and smiles as she notices it was minted the year she was married. She knows that somewhere her husband must be thinking of her.
–Jeffe 12/04/04